for the record...

...looking at Sugardaddy's brownies is not helping the carbohydrate cravings. 

I'm just sayin'...

the tenacious ten: day seven

Spent the weekend with a houseful of people and pets, thanks to our alma mater's collegiate choir being in town on their spring break tour.  Entertaining company is always a challenge for me when I'm trying to lose weight.  Or maintain.  Or any time that involves eating, which is all of my life, as I tend to eat on a daily basis.  I have the best of intentions, but once there is Mama Mimi's pizza fresh out of the oven or breakfast casserole likewise fresh, well, the intentions that were so black and white suddenly fade to gray.

One more piece of pizza won't hurt, I tell myself.  Then it's another.  And another.  Suddenly, I've had five over the course of the entire evening.  Why do I do that?  I don't know.  I wish I could figure it out.

I hate it when other people are eating things I enjoy and I can't eat them, too.  I feel punished.  It feels unfair.

I can't stand knowing there is are special foods in the house.  I cannot stop thinking about them until they are gone.  I become completely obsessed.

Here's the weird thing.  We gave up sweets for lent.  So the cookies were not even a temptation.  Why not?  I don't know.

This is what I know, and what I don't know.  The difficult truth is that this eating thing continue to be a mystery to me, despite so many, many things that should make it not a mystery.  I will think more about it tomorrow.  Tonight, I am spent.

the tenacious ten: day four

I wish someone would have reminded me that too much protein powder does not make one's stomach happy.  No reason.

Day four was uneventful.  The Kashi Go-Lean Crunch has stopped calling me, as it is no longer in the cupboard.  It can't call from within my stomach--I figured that was the safest bet for all involved.  So I am free from that temptation.  It was a tough sacrifice to have to eat it all before it drove me crazy.  But sometimes you just gotta do whatcha gotta do. 

The Zone bars, on the other hand, are very quick and easy and have CHOCOLATE on them.  They need to be gone so there are no more temptations calling me from the pantry.  Sigh.  More sacrifice.  Woe is me.

Aside from the bloatedness driving me to distraction, it has been a decent day, albeit a long one.  I will retire with a good book and try not to think about how pathetic it is that I am craving a Zone bar or about how FAT I feel after a day of IBS.  Another busy day awaits me, then another, and then another.  

But by then, the Zone bars will be GONE, and I will be home free. 

the tenacious ten: day two

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst, for they are sticking to their diets.

Author Unknown
 

I'm hungry. Really. Not just "I think I'm hungry because I'm bored or depressed or existentially dissatisfied." I'm really, truly, HUNGRY.You would think that would not be the cause for much concern. If you're hungry, you just eat. It's just that simple. But in my world, nothing is JUST. And nothing is SIMPLE.

For the record, I am getting up to get a low-fat cheese stick. I am not so legalistic that I will not feed my body when my body says feed me. But I am also not so disciplined that I can get away with doing this at my body's every whim. And I am not so confident that I can navigate the mire of my psyche well enough to not come completely unglued with each non-sanctioned meal plan choice. So I must tread with caution.This morning was a departure. A bowl of Kashi Go-Lean Crunch instead of my "clean" oatmeal. The box was calling to me. Loudly and persistently. It needed to be emptied so it would STOP. I have no better excuse.

Dinner was a departure. A Zone bar instead of a chicken breast and broccoli. I had exactly 30 minutes to get a walk in after work before my family got home, and I needed to eat. I couldn't take broccoli for a walk. The Zone bar was convenient. It was a logical choice.The cheese stick is a departure. I'm hungry. I can eat a cheese stick. For the moment, it's "just that simple."

None of these things are particularly bad, other than the fact that they are manufactured and that the first two contain sugar, which I am trying to avoid. But they are not BAD, and, therefore, I will not feel BAD about them. Or at least I will try not to.I am sticking to my diet, even when not sticking to my diet. I can let go of the legalism and embrace the grace I am so desperately in need of.

And then, tomorrow, I can endeavor again to follow closely that which is set out for me.

still waiting for the miracle

My scale is broken. I stepped on it this morning, and it said 150.4. I moved it. Stepped on it again. 150.4. Moved it again. Stepped on it again. 150.4. Five different locations on the one hundred year old hard wood floor. Which usually render five different numbers on the scale. Five exact same readings this morning. 150.4

Now, let's review. I've been on The Miracle Diet, which enabled me to lose 100 pounds over five years ago. I regained twenty during The Winter From Hell, two years ago. I'd lost fifteen, and was hovering at 145 for about forever. But I was sticking to The Miracle Diet. And I was going to lose that blasted Final Five and be able to wear the clothes that are hanging, lonely and forlorn, in my closet. By the end of February.

I have deviated from The Miracle Diet Exactly three times in the last two weeks since I last weighed myself. I had a piece of cake. Singular. I had two cinnamon rolls. Plural. I had Chinese with rice. Global. If I put all of that together, it doesn't even weigh ONE pound, let alone five. I fail to understand. But then again, that's par for the course around here.

So, here we go. Sunday starts The Diet From Hell. Because I'm sick and tired of going round and round with this last five pounds. I want my pants to fit--the pants I already fit in once before, for five years. Is that so wrong? No. It's not. Two weeks. I'm giving it two weeks.

And if my scale doesn't say something close to 140 by then, no matter WHERE I put it on the stinkin' floor, well, then it's GONNA be broken.

moderation, my fanny

I almost didn't do it. I had been avoiding it lately--afraid of what I'd find and what I'd do once I found it. And so I went for three weeks maintaining total abstinence, in complete ignorant bliss, not knowing what the scale had to say about what my body was or wasn't doing. I'd tell you it was a peaceful, serene three weeks without this constant, subjective feedback, but that would be a lie. Feedback, alas, comes in many forms.

Over the past three weeks, feedback has come in the form of pants that fit better one day, but then clinging exactly the same as they used to the next. It has come in the form of bloating throughout the day to the point of having to peel my pants of at night. It has come in the form of checking my reflection morning, noon, and night, to see if it looks any different. I'm unfortunately no less neurotic simply for having not stepped on my scale.

This morning, however, I am slightly more neurotic for having stepped on the scale. All the feedback over the last few days--pants fitting better, people commenting on how I look, the image in the mirror looking a little smaller--all seemed to indicate that there should be a new number on the scale. And a lower one, to boot. So I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and took a gamble. And was immediately reminded once again that what SHOULD be and what really IS do not often line up in my world.

My scale blinked the same flippin' number at me today as it did three weeks ago. Three weeks ago. Are you beginning to see why my body makes me crazy? Three weeks of miracle diet, with very few exceptions, and the scale still reads 145. I don't know what... I don't know why... I don't know how... I can't even complete a sentence. There are so many possible endings to each of those beginnings.

Eight pounds lost, five to go. And the scale is not budging. This scares the crap out of me. Why? Because it's beginning to look like I might need to do something drastic. And I'm just not sure I'm up for drastic.

Over the past three weeks, I had two pieces of pizza and a slice of cake for my son's birthday. I cheated. Yes. I admit it. But I did so in a healthy way. I did so in moderation. I did so in order to not swing from the extreme of legalism to the extreme of anarchy. I felt okay about it. The next weekend was my women's group retreat. I went off the diet for one day--ONE DAY--and ate in moderation what everyone else was eating. And this past weekend, we had a birthday celebration for a friend, and I cheated for one meal. ONE MEAL. I did not binge. I did not go hog wild. I did not go completely off the deep end. I ate what everyone else around me was eating, and I did so in moderation.

Here's what makes me CRAZY. Moderation is not enough. Apparently, a few slices of pizza and a couple of desserts over the course of three weeks, even done in moderation, are enough to completely derail any semblance of progress. That makes me utterly, ragingly insane. If I want to take off this last stinkin' five pounds and fit back into the rest of my "fit girl" wardrobe, I'm going to have to be completely, 100% perfect. I'm going to have to resist eating like everyone else at next week's potluck. I'm going to have to possibly go even more drastic with the diet. And I'm going to have to work out even harder. And I don't know that I have it in me to do that.

Some days, I wish I were just okay with being fat. Some days, I wish I just didn't care. Because some days, I just don't think I have what it takes to fight this life-long battle with a body that wants to be covered in a nice, thick, warm layer of fatty flesh. I know what it takes to do that. And today, I'm sick and I'm tired and I'm just not up for it. Not for today, not for this weekend, not for the month, not for the rest of my life.

Tomorrow will most likely look different. I will try to cling to that and put the blinking number and the swirling thoughts and the raging confusion out of my head for now. As for how I shall succeed with that attempt, well, we shall see...

happy birthday to me...

So, for the record, birthdays completely screw with your diet. I had my whole weekend mapped out, complete with ice cream and key lime pie, and vowed to be back on the wagon come 7.26.09. That would be today. Given that I've lost seven pounds in the last three weeks, my determination was strong and I was doing, if you don't mind me saying, darn well. Then my husband surprised me.

That meant cake. The good kind that has the chocolate mousse in the middle and real butter cream frosting. That also meant apple strudel, which my mom bakes for me for my birthday. AND it meant Kettle Chips and chocolate chip cookies from Krista, who takes my blog title VERY seriously.

That means I did NOT get back on the wagon today. That means I had apple strudel for breakfast, lunch, AND dinner. And that means that I'm struggling to not freak out that I've re-gained all seven pounds in one day. So far I am winning that battle, but the fear is relentless. One day, that fear will be gone. One day...

So, back on the wagon tomorrow. It was my birthday, after all. And if I'm going to have my cake, you better darn well believe I'm going to eat it, too.

(Will be back to posting regularly soon...)

curses on isaac newton…

Finally stepped on the scale this morning. I think I was in need of a shock to finally wake me up out of this sugar-induced stupor. It woke me up, alright. I won't go through my list of emotions—I'm sure you can pretty well guess by now what my response would have been.

I did not, however, spend twenty minutes crying in the shower, which is a fairly typical response for me. Probably because the number really wasn't a surprise, given what The Woman Formerly Known as Lorie looked like in pictures from the weekend. And how can I act shocked when I know what I've been doing? The first ten pounds I can legitimately blame on a crappy winter—they truly snuck up on me. The rest? Well, it's all me, baby. Rebellion? Anger turned inward? Apathy? Self-care? Who knows. I just hope it's over.

It is odd that I did not cry. But I think I am moving toward resolve. Moving toward… In the meantime, there are Oreo cookies in my pantry from the weekend. Will I eat one when I'm done? Before I tell my husband to take them into work tomorrow? Will I eat more than one? More than two? Or will I drink my water and retreat to bed, knowing that there are more Oreo cookies in the world that I can have any time I want?

Mr. Newton claims for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Pig out—gain weight. Starve—binge. Weigh yourself—freak out and create a new resolve to, well, to do what?

I don't know.

I'm tired of equal and opposite reactions. I want a new and different reaction. I want to stop swinging from one extreme to the other. I want to be free.

But does freedom mean eating the Oreo cookies, or not?

This, I cannot determine for the life of me…

spinning my wheels

Yet another moment of distress. I pull on a t-shirt to wear to bed. My size M which I've worn so proudly for the last several years, for the first time since—when? Junior high? It clings to my middle, refusing to fall down smoothly over my rear-end. I feel exposed.

The day was filled with these moments, as was the week, the weekend, the month. Putting on my jeans this morning, fresh from the wash, and having that initial moment of dismay before they finally relaxed slightly around my enlarged frame. The reminder, each time I stood up or walked, that I have gained weight because of the way they cling stubbornly to my thighs. How many times to today did my heart sink at that rub-rub-rub?

I cannot stop. I cannot start. Eating. Exercising. I can't get past this place of spinning my wheels.

Am I going to stop eating everything in sight? I ask my husband, in bed.

Yes, he replies.

When, I ask.

When you want something else more than food.

I don't like his answer. He wonders why I won't let him put his arm around my thick, bulging waist. Why I pull away. Why I shut down. Again.

WHEN I want something more? As if I don't already? As if I don't long, achingly, every day of my life for something more?

The problem, of course, if that he is right. And wrong. I want both nothing and everything more than food.

too much yes

Alas, there can also be such a thing as too much yes.

Despite several years of working toward finding that point of moderation, I still find myself in situations (notice the passive terminology there—part of the problem perhaps?) where my intake valve gets stuck in the “on” position. This weekend was the perfect example. Burger and fries on Friday. No problem. A little no, a little yes. S’mores by the campfire on Saturday. No problem. A little no, a little yes. Cookout at my brother’s on Sunday. Big problem. All yes. Yes, yes, and more yes. To the point of complete and utter discomfort for the rest of the evening. Too much yes.

I used to swing wildly and widely between the extremes of too much no and too much yes. Diets. Vilifying foods or groups of foods. Counting calories obsessively. Too much no. Binging. Unable to step away from the potluck table. Ordering too much out of an uncontrollable fear of not having enough. Too much yes.

Over the last several years, I have worked toward an all-things-in-moderation mentality. I restrict, but don’t outlaw, sugar, gluten, and dairy 90% of the time because I just feel better when I do. But I also eat a piece of sugar and white flour laden cake at a birthday party for the exact same reason—I just feel better when I do. I eat clean, I eat healthy, I eat a reasonable amount. Most of the time. Most.

Somewhere in my spirit I can’t break this classic starve-binge cycle, particularly the binge loop, no matter what I do behaviorally. At least 85-90% of the time I eat moderately and happily. I eat things I enjoy, and I enjoy the things I eat. I don’t feel deprived, I don’t feel hungry, I don’t feel compulsive or anxious. I just eat. At home. At work. At a friend’s house. At Chipotle. I just eat, and I’m fine.

But then I go to a cookout. To a potluck. To a sit-down restaurant. A switch is flipped, the intake valve turned on, all restraints removed. Why? My mind begins rationalizing. I just want to eat like everyone else is eating (although I’m not—I’m eating much, much MORE). It’s a special occasion (like a Friday… or a Saturday). I won’t get the opportunity to eat this/like this again for a while (like until NEXT Friday or Saturday).

The classic model would suggest I’m binging in these situations because I am starving myself in others. But that is no longer true, at least not in a dietary sense. This same model would also suggest that I’m vilifying the foods that trigger me, therefore causing me to gorge on them from time to time in rebellion. This is also no longer true—I don’t treat these foods as “bad” any other time, I simply eat them in moderation.

So what causes the “safety” on my intake valve to come off? Why, when unlimited options are placed in front of me, do I become a pistol cocked and fully loaded? And why can I be reasonable and healthy at one place during one moment in time, but be completely unable to restrain myself the next?

What am I hungry for that causes me to eat in such a way? These are the questions I am seeking to explore.

deep, cleansing breaths

(exhale)
I am better now.

A good night's sleep, a small downward turn on the scale, and the relief that I can still fit into my shorts—a relief, indeed, on this our first shorts-worthy day—have all come together to snap me back into my right mind.

That, and I'm sick to death of eating fish and chicken.

After a nice, healthy (if you call wanting to cry "nice" and nausea-inducing "healthy") four mile run, the "fast" was broken at Five Guys Burgers and Fries, with only one very, very small order of guilt on the side.

While I know, truly know, that dieting is not the answer, there was a certain shift that was created over the last two weeks—a breakthrough of sorts, if you will. I was able to remember my ability to say no, which had gotten lost somewhere over the winter amidst the roaring PMS and the appetite-stoking sinus infections. My appetite had outgrown me—I fed it after midnight and it grew into something ugly and uncontrollable. These two weeks helped me to remember that I can say no and not die. That is a good thing to remember.

Tonight? Well, tonight helped me to remember that I can also say YES. And that is a good thing to remember, too.

more of the same

This is the point at which I go crazy. (Nothing like jumping right in.)

I sat down tonight to a dinner consisting of a six ounce fish fillet, one cup of zucchini, one cup of asparagus, and three cups of plain salad greens. For the tenth day in a row. For someone who loves food as much as I do, this is tantamount to torture. The first night, it was pretty good. The second night, I cheated and put one tablespoon of dressing on my salad. By the fifth or sixth night, my portions were shrinking and my appetite exploding. By night ten, I could barely choke it down. I can’t eat any more.

Let me back up, as the big picture might be helpful. I have struggled with weight my entire life, sliding the little lever up and down the bar in increments that increase with each re-gain. Five years ago, with over 200 pounds on my five foot two inch frame, I determined it would not happen again. I was done. I was going to get to a reasonable, healthy weight and marry it for life.

Over the next year I lost 75 pounds and six dress sizes. At 140, I was in a size ten for the first time since probably junior high, and fairly comfortable with my stronger, trimmer, but still a little big-ish frame. Fairly. I filled my wardrobe with colorful, curve-accentuating clothes, and for the first time in a long time I felt okay. Not good, not out of the woods, but okay. And for someone who had not been okay for quite some time, okay looked pretty darn, well, okay.

I kept the weight off for four years, albeit with many points of struggle and frustration. But I kept it off nonetheless, and I was still hanging on to okay, if only by a thread.

Then came the half-marathon. The carb-craving-inducing monster that made me so hungry I could have eaten my God-awful plaid hand-me-down couch. Then came the injury, followed by the month of rest the doctor ordered right at the beginning of Christmas Cookie Season. Then came the vacation to Florida, and the four sinus infections in the last three months. Then came seasons two and three of Battlestar Galactica, delivered right to my mailbox in a pretty red envelope, paired with my increasing desire to sit on my tired, achy butt and not make myself in the least bit any more uncomfortable than I already was.

I gained ten pounds. My pants wouldn’t button, some wouldn’t even pull up. Tops wouldn’t meet comfortably in the middle—button amicably greeting hole without each pulling away from the other as if in great disdain. And so I did what anyone who has gained weight before would do. I panicked.

I reigned in my eating, when I wasn’t blind-sided by cravings for anything made out of starch of any kind. I tried to work out harder, when I could narrowly carve out the time and the energy to move a muscle or two. I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be moderate. I tried to be healthy. The scale didn’t budge.

Panic grew and spread like the layer of fat sprawled across my backside. My weight consumed my every thought—trying to figure out what to wear, what to eat, what to do. I was at a point of despair. So I did something desperate.

I went on a diet. A restricted-calorie, clean-eating, metabolism-bursting “lose ten pounds in three weeks” diet. I knew better. But desperate times call for desperate diets. I sucked it up and cut veggies and boiled chicken and broiled fish and I followed it 99% perfectly for ten days. The first five days, I lost four pounds. I was tentatively hopeful, but terrified to really let my mind go to anywhere vaguely resembling hope. I’ve been here before. I know the terrible truth. When push comes to shove, none of it matters. My body can’t be trusted.

The scale has read 150.2 for the last four days. I’m still following the diet. I’m exercising as I can. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do—I’m following the formula. I’m not losing any weight.

THIS is where I go completely crazy.